The Call
by overlyattached
Summary: based on "The Call" be Regina Spektor. just a very short angsty one shot.


Ok, so this is my first fic that i have ever actually finished and uploaded, so please don't judge me too harshly! constructive criticism is always welcome though.

as is the same with every other story, i do not own anyone or anything, which totally sucks. but i do write about them because i love them, yay!

also it is not Beta'd so any mistakes are my own sorry!

this is based on the song "the call" by Regina Spektor

**The**** Call**

"I'll come back, when you call me, no need to say goodbye"

He'd stand in the kitchen, in those worn out jeans and his messy hair, singing it under his breath, trying to get the right pitch and never quite managing it. He'd chuckle and sigh, flipping his fringe out of his eyes, flashing that scar. Then he'd start again, from the very beginning, and the sun would break from behind the clouds, filtering through the window, illuminating him, like some angel, like a god amongst men, and I'd snort, thinking I sounded like the writers at the bloody prophet, and he'd look up in surprise, realising I'd been watching him all this time. His face would flush with pleasure and embarrassment, and I'd cross the kitchen in strides, gather him in my arms and breath him in.

He'd sing it to me, with that earnest and sincere expression on his face, while we danced in the living room, slightly tipsy after too much fire whisky on a late evening. I'd smile and press our foreheads together, telling him I'd never let him get far enough away for me to have to call him. Then he'd kiss me, soft and sweet, but filled with all that he could never say. I'd whisper his name against his throat, Potter, like a caress and he'd shiver and tilt his head to the side, silently urging me to claim, mark him, make him mine for everyone to see, so there was no way to refute that we were together, giving him a physical mark just like the unconscious one he'd left on me.

He'd write it to me in those little notes he'd leave around the house, and in the pockets of his clothes, our clothes, that were so jumbled in a wardrobe that never quite big enough no matter how many charms we put on it. He would always stand and watch, his eyes so much greener when creased in mirth behind those glasses that he would not change, no matter how many times I cajoled and begged and bribed, he would watch as I struggled to put my, yet another, new purchase in, then he would be behind me and his arms would encircle my waist and he'd lean his chin on my shoulder and whisper the words to enlarge the space, making it so I could fit my new clothes in. he never complained at my shopping, just leaving the notes in the pockets, often with those words to let me know how much I meant to him.

He'd say them to me, holding me tight, when I was wrenched awake from dreams, nightmares, with fire and heat and smoke and him _leaving_, flying up and out without stopping. He wouldn't come back when I called, even when I screamed his name; the only time used it in full in front of others, though this was not real. Sometimes he would hesitate, eyes full of pain and confusion and indecision. Other times he was cold and cruel, and he would laugh as he left me to burn. Those were the worst, those were the dreams where he was not the man I knew, he was not the man who would become mine. I would wake, suddenly, drenched in sweat and his name on my lips, yet he would already be there, beside me, in the now, in the here, soothing me and saying those words, over and over, hushed and calming.

He sang then to me, looking down, face alive and bright, full of joy and passion, even as he whirled, and dived and leaped, firing hexes and spells, taking down all those around, keeping me safe. He appeared, when I thought I was done, always in the nick of time, and I gave him that smile, the one I only gave to him, full of amusement, and love and frustration and anger and all that he made me feel. He pulled me to my feet, telling me he'd never leave he behind, he's always be there for me, then chuckling and singing his song, and we'd throw ourselves in again, side by side, back to back, once more the boy wonder, biggest prat I ever had the misfortune to fall in love with, and me, the redeemed, partners.

He'd whisper them, punctuated with wracking coughs, sounds pulled from his soul, sounds from hell, leaving lips flecked with red, a shaking pale hand dragged across to clear them as I helped him sit up, holding clear water to him to sooth his throat, helping him as he always helped me. Even when I wanted to scream out, asking him, demanding he tell me how he could do this, how dare he leave me, because that's what he was doing, he was going, leaving, leaving me behind, slipping away from me, going to that one place I couldn't follow. But I'd grit my teeth, hold my tongue biting it so hard that the coppery taste made my eyes water, because, dammit, Malfoy's did not cry.

He'd murmur them as I paced, long agitated strides, running frustrated hands through already messy hair, a habit I hated that I'd picked up from him, but I one I would never let go of, because it was from him. I'd rant, angry torrents of harsh words, hating those who had done this to him, hating those who couldn't save him, hating _him _for being so calm about this, and hating myself for being so helpless. I'd break things, expensive things, things my mother gave us, presents from friends, never things from him, never things that meant something, something to us, something with memories, taking vicious pleasure in the destruction, in the chaos, showing the pain and anguish.

He didn't sing it, didn't say it, didn't even whisper it, as I carried him down the aisle, just holding one corner on my shoulder, having to share him with Weasley and Longbottom and Thomas. The hordes outside screamed and cried and held flowers and letters and my hands gripped tight on the smooth dark wood, wanting to hex them all for feeling like this, when only those who knew him, those who loved him, and were loved in return by him should be allowed this moment. I wanted him here, needed him here, to keep me calm and grounded, and the memories and the whisper of his voice, of what he would say if he was here, were just not enough to keep the grief in check. I stood to the side as he was lowered down, and I wanted to follow, to follow him where I never really could, where he never wanted me to follow, because I just missed him so, so much.

I'd sit by his headstone, every week, telling him what he was missing, telling him the world was still spinning without him in it, when it should have stopped, asking him to just stop, stop this, and come back to me, to do one last thing for me and not be…. dead. I'd sing his words back to him, say them to him, shout them at him, because where was he when I called? Why wasn't he here? I refused to accept he would never be here again.

Yet life kept on living. As the years passed I lost touch, with friends, the few that I had, with my work, with reality, instead clinging to all that I had left of him, hearing his voice when I tried to cook, seeing his finger marks on the steamed up mirror, seeing his footsteps on the worn out patch of carpet, smelling his skin on his favourite jumper. Then one day I woke up and I could find him anymore, he wasn't there, and I searched and screamed and cried and begged and sat, paralysed, wrapped up in his clothes on the living room floor.

When they found me, they put in St Mungos for 3 days, trying to restore my health, and my sanity, and I felt better, I learnt that I could grieve, but he wouldn't want me to do this; the man that was so vibrant and alive, that he'd become my whole world. But I had to let go, even just a little so I could keep on living. For all that he said it, I had to say goodbye, but I would never, _ever_ let him leave me.


End file.
